


Elephants' Graveyard

by 7slash20



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7slash20/pseuds/7slash20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Methos' death, MacLeod needs to spend some time alone; when he returns, Joe's world has changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elephants' Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> I found some old stories on my hard drive; maybe some of you have a s much fun as I had re-discovering them.  
> Be warned: I'm not a native speaker and the stories are not beta-ed. Read at own risk!  
> (Dimeth is the name I used for my Highlander stuff, just in case you wondered...)

Elephants' Graveyard

By Dimeth

 

The small room reeked of old age and mortality. It reeked of death.

The visitor’s eyes slowly adapted to the twilight. This wasn’t the cosy retirement place he had imagined when he’d finally heard about Joe from Amanda. This was a place for people to die. Not an assisted dying, nothing to make the transition between life and death a fine line to step across easily – no machines to float failing lungs with oxygen or to pump the gentle solace of morphine derivatives into pain-crammed bodies. No nurses to see to the patients’ needs with tender hands and knowing smiles. This was just a place away from the world to wait for death.

And from what Amanda had said, Joe was waiting here for more than a year now. 

More than one year since Joe had first closed, then sold Le Blues Bar, since he had made a hasty final retreat from the Watchers, more than a year since the two of them had last met.  
More than a year since…  
He still couldn’t put it into words, not even in his head.

The visitor’s eyes skimmed over the room’s interior: A small closet, a nightstand, a bed. No chairs. No wheelchair.  
Finally, he allowed himself to take a look at the silver-haired man buried motionless under a thick blanket.

Joe.

It tore at MacLeod’s heart to see how little was left of his Watcher for more than twenty years. The ashen-colored skin was pulled taut over the now unfamiliar prominent cheekbones and nose. The body too frail to make much of a disturbance of the blanket surface.

“There you are.” The soft voice startled MacLeod and he stepped closer to the bed and its inhabitant.

“Aye, Joe, here I am.” He looked around searching for something to sit on. Joe weakly patted the bed next to his hip and MacLeod sat cautiously.  
“It’s good to see you, Mac.”

_I wish I could say that._ MacLeod thought.  
“It’s been a long time…” 

“Yeah,” Joe said with difficulty. “Amanda,” he coughed; a dry, curiously light sound in the silence of the room, “spoke with you.” 

“She said you wanted to talk to me.”  
He kept his voice neutral, not willing to give in to the emotions boiling up inside him.  
Joe nodded, swallowing with difficulty.  
“I thought… I thought you might want to know…” 

“Don’t, Joe,” MacLeod cut in sharply, warning Joe to go on. Not to spare Joe, but spare himself the pain of remembering. 

“I don’t have much time left, Mac…” Joe coughed again. “And I want somebody to know what happened. Somebody who…”  
His gaze drifted past MacLeod’s face. “Somebody who knew him too. Somebody to remember him… from time to time.” 

Their eyes made contact again and MacLeod said: “I’m listening.”  


_13 months earlier, Le Blues Bar, Paris_

“Dawson?!”  
MacLeod busted through the door of Le Blues Bar, ignoring the CLOSED sign and the mixed emotions radiating off of him made Joe pause in his effort to see his reflection in the counter top. He turned the rag and started wiping again, bracing himself for MacLeod’s rage. 

The fireworks had illuminated the Parisian sky. Joe should have known Mac would come to the right conclusion. 

“Is it true?” Choked, but way too calm. 

Joe knew too well it was true; he had pulled Methos’ head up by the stubbly hair and had taken it inside, putting it gently down on the couch in his office. He had closed the unseeing eyes, had even kissed the cooling lips. 

Then he had gone out again and dragged the remains of Methos’ body in, too. Damn, the corpse had been heavy, despite the wiry look, he had been too heavy to lift him and carry him inside instead of dragging him through the dirt like a bundle of rags. 

Putting body and head next to each other again on the couch, Joe had taken his gun and gone outside a last time, to wait for the kid to come around. Joe had never seen it happen before, never even heard of it, but Methos' Quickening had actually killed the kid who had taken it. 

Joe had had to wait in the shadows for more than an hour, entertaining the idea that maybe Methos wasn’t really dead. Maybe his Quickening would turn out too powerful for the kid; maybe it would be a variation on a dark Quickening. Maybe Methos’ Quickening would take over the body and Joe would only have to get used to a new face, get accustomed to a new body instead of facing hell. 

Joe had known he was reaching. 

And when the kid had come round, and Joe had talked to him –and what stupid scum the kid had been- there had been no sign of recognition. Joe had shot him and had returned to his dead lover. An hour later he’d gone out, just to check, and found the kid gone. 

The silent wiping was too much for the Highlander – he ripped the rag out of Joe’s hand and slapped him in the face with it. Joe felt nothing. 

“Is it true?” MacLeod’s breaking voice made Joe look at him – his cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red-rimmed, and it would have been an achievement if he’d blown his nose.  
“Is Methos dead?” The Highlander’s tone was cold. He already knew the answer, he just needed confirmation. 

Not trusting his voice, Joe simply nodded. 

A sound like a sob escaped MacLeod.  
“No.”  
Then his fist hit the counter hard, before he put his forehead down to the shining wood, giving into his grief. 

Joe looked at the shuddering body and contemplated their differences.  
They had been kind of friends over the years, had seen good times and bad times, but never had it become so clear that they stood on opposite sides of the bar and of life. Mac was Immortal. Joe felt dead.  
Yet, he was running the rag over the wood in slow circles, like a zombie. 

Eventually, MacLeod stopped crying. He watched Joe for a while, before he finally said gravely: “Is that all you gonna do? Wipe the fuckin’ counter?” 

Joe didn’t meet Mac’s gaze, nor did he answer immediately, but he stopped his silent mantra. Instead he got two glasses, a bottle of Scotch and poured shots. Pushing one over to MacLeod, he raised the other one and knocked it back without waiting for him to catch up or say something. 

After the third shot in silence, MacLeod asked: “Haven’t you got anything to say, Dawson? A word of regret? Anything?” 

_What could he say? Nothing would ever be the same without Methos. Nothing he could say would bring him back._  
“What do you want me to say?” Joe asked warily. 

“What happened?” 

“He was whacked…” 

“No.” A whisper one moment, a pained cry the next. “No, that can’t be true. Not Methos.” 

“…by Jermaine Jones.” A not even fifty year old kid, who died first at the age of twenty-two. 

They had been in bed, sweaty and sated and too comfortable for a shower. Suddenly Methos’ spine had gone rigid against Joe’s chest and belly and his head had come up sharply. 

“Company?” Joe had asked sleepily. “Anybody we know?” 

Methos had gotten out of the bed in that uniquely graceful, fluid way and stood next to the window, gazing down into the dark and quiet night.  
“Probably Mac,” he’d said, getting into his jeans already, not bothering with underwear, “the guy never knows when he’s a pain in the arse.” 

He’d looked around for the T shirt he’d shed earlier, finally spotting it between Joe’s clothes. He had come back to the bed, kissed Joe and said: “I’m going to see what he wants. Don’t you go anywhere, we’re not done yet.” 

Chuckling at Joe’s theatrical groan, he had been gone. 

Joe had nestled deeper into the comforting warmth of the blankets and the residual scent of his lover, rubbing his bristly cheek against the imprint of Methos’ head in the pillow with a sigh.  
But then he had bolted upright and shouted: “Your sword! You didn’t take…” 

And Joe had heard it. The clatter of metal against something. He got his legs and trousers, the odd sounds from outside hurrying him. Not for the first time he cursed his prosthetic legs and the hassle that came with them. He’d fumbled with the straps, pulled them too tight, but didn’t really care, grabbed his cane and his gun and had been out, following the sounds of shuffling feet and panting into a dark bystreet. 

“The sword,” he’d thought, again too late. 

Too late for anything, because Methos was already on his knees, the long, pale neck exposed, the white T shirt torn and stained by something dark. 

And then it had happened. The unthinkable. The one thing Joe had prayed he would never see.  
The sword came down in a glistening arc, down on Methos’ neck, separating body and head with a single stroke. 

Joe coughed and his taut features crumbled into a million folds. 

“Joe?! Can I help?” 

“Water,” Joe managed between coughs. 

MacLeod saw the water carafe and a glass on the nightstand and was around the bed in an instant. Turning the carafe upside down, the dry body of a dead fly fell into the glass. There hadn’t been water in it for days.  
“I’ll get the nurse.” He decided. 

Joe waved his hand weakly while painful spasms shook his body. But MacLeod was already out of the room and down the corridor. He entered the nurse’s room without knocking. 

“Hey, Mister, this is not your home!”  
A mid-forties woman with hair dyed to the color of over-ripe tomatoes spat at him. 

“Joe needs help. He can’t stop coughing…” 

“Joe? Who’s Joe?” she asked without much interest, flicked the ashes off her cigarette and turned the pages of a women’s magazine. 

“Room 21,” MacLeod said, trying to urge her on with a worried look and a step back into the corridor. 

“Ah, you mean Mister Dickson…” 

“Dawson. The name is Joseph Dawson.” 

“Dickson. Dawson.” She shrugged. “So – what does he want this time?” 

“Help.” MacLeod said and with two steps he was at her side, catching her upper arm in a painful grip and forced her to her feet and down the corridor back to Joe’s room.  
Joe’s coughing hadn’t stopped. 

“There, there,” she said, yet her tone lacked the gentleness that usually accompanied the words. She pulled Joe upright by his arm and patted his back roughly. 

Joe’s formerly pale face had turned to a sick shade of violet. The coughing finally eased. But instead of lowering him carefully, the nurse let his upper body drop back to the pillow. 

MacLeod winced at the indifferent treatment. 

The nurse made a sniffing sound, then grabbed the blanket covering Joe. With what little strength he had left, Joe fought her attempt to pull it away.  
“Let go of it,” she hissed at him and snatched the blanket out of his weak grip, revealing the rest of his body to herself and MacLeod.  
“You wet yourself again.” She accused. “This was the last time I changed your sheets, Mr. Dickson. From now on it’s diapers.”  
Her tone communicated more punishment later. 

Joe’s eyes met MacLeod’s and Mac saw nothing but resignation and shame, which sent a chill down his spine. The fighter he had always admired was gone.  
“Hey, could you at least try to leave him some of his dignity?” 

“And who are you?” The nurse spat. “His son? Could have damn well shown up earlier.” 

“Yeah, right,” MacLeod admitted softly, meeting Joe’s tired gaze. “I should have come earlier. -And the name is _Dawson_ ,” he said pointedly, but the nurse was already on her way to the supply room. 

MacLeod pulled the blanket up to Joe’s chest again, but not before he had noticed that the stumps looked healthier than ever – from not using the prosthetic legs anymore as it seemed. 

“Joe, we get you out of here and…” he said and could hear the urgency and the desperation in his words. And he had thought it wouldn’t make any difference to him whether he saw Dawson again. 

Duncan had made a hesitant attempt after four weeks of stubbornly grieving alone. He had gone to Joe’s around midnight on a Saturday – only to find the door locked and the bar dark and closed. 

Two weeks later he had seen an ad for the flat above the bar in the local newspaper and –coming to the bar half an hour later- he had found Joe’s emptied out. A container in front of the entrance was filled with the barstools, small tables and chairs on which he had spent countless hours… and on top, Duncan wouldn’t believe his eyes, Joe’s favourite Gibson. 

He had taken the guitar upstairs to Joe’s flat only to find it emptied out, too. 

Duncan had been angry then, had been ever since he’d come to Joe’s the night Methos had been killed. Had been until he had seen what was left of his Watcher, lying in a bed in a seedy retirement home. 

When Amanda had come to see him three months ago, Duncan had been irritated when she mentioned Joe. Actually, he had been more surprised than anything else when he realized that she of all people knew about Dawson’s whereabouts. 

“I should be the one who’s surprised, Duncan,” she drawled, letting her perfectly varnished fingernails slide over the strings of Joe’s guitar, leaning against the wall next to his armchair, “why don’t _you_ know?”  
Amanda had looked at him and her eyes had been sad: “Joe was your friend, Duncan. He still is. It’s no use starting war with mortals, they’re too fragile.”  
She had caressed the strings, letting them hum lowly, then touched his cheek instead. He had been stunned to see tears in her eyes, when she said: “Let him die in peace, Duncan. Please, go and see him.” 

And from one second to the next, she had shed the admonishing attitude, had popped open a bottle of champagne, had told him gossip about the Valincourt’s whom she had met only weeks ago in Spain and guess what… 

They had made love, casual as usual, no strings attached and when he had woken the next morning she had been gone. Only the faint scent of her perfume had remained and – on the pillow- the address of the retirement home where Joe now lived. 

Tossing the card aside, the decision already made, Duncan had started packing. He had thought he needed some time off, away from Seacouver, away from old memories.  
_He would go to Paris for a change, would take care of the barge, then on to see Robert and Gina, maybe._

Duncan had put the CLOSED sign on the door of the dojo, had locked all doors and had been on his way to France within 48 hours. A week in Paris, another in Monte Carlo with his ever-fighting friends Robert and Gina, then together with them on to Italy. Rome, Venice, Florence – but wherever they had gone over the weeks, Duncan had been restless. 

The day he returned to Seacouver had been a bright summer’s day. A light breeze had been rippling the trees, and the sun still high in the sky.  
_A beautiful day._

Putting down his bags in his flat above the dojo, Duncan had sighed. The air had been stale and every surface covered with a fine layer of dust. His restlessness hadn’t eased and he still couldn’t put his finger on a reason. A little jogging would do him good, he had decided, dressed in sweat pants and a cut-off T shirt and had been out of the building in a flash. 

He had run along the sea for a while, inhaling the salty air deeply into his lungs. The sun, the breeze and the constant thumping of his soles against the pavement had made him feel better.  
_More alive, somehow._  
He had turned to the park, but after ten minutes of zigzagging through the crowd, he had decided to stop and stretch, then walk back to the dojo. 

A playground was close; Duncan had always liked to watch kids play. He envied their focus on their games, oblivious of the world around them.  
Going through his stretching routine, he had watched three boys building a castle in the sand. 

Sitting on the nearest bench, he had leaned back with his eyes closed to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the breeze, cooling his sweaty skin. 

He had felt a slight movement of the bench when somebody sat down next to him.  
“Duncan?” 

His eyes had flown open and he had looked at the woman next to him.  
“Anne!” 

They had looked at each other speechless for a moment, cataloguing differences and things they remembered from the past. It had been years since their last meeting. 

And then, they had started to talk simultaneously: ‘Good to see you’, ‘Must’ve been years’, ‘almost eight to be exact’, ‘you look great, how are you? Everything okay with the house?’, ‘Yeah, everything is fine, we love it. You should see-’  
Anne had stopped talking and waved at somebody. 

Duncan’s eyes had followed her motion to a girl on the swings. A wiry girl with unruly dark curls. 

“Mary?” he had asked incredulously. 

“Yeah,” Anne had smiled and gestured her daughter to come over.  
The girl had jumped from the swings and came running.  
“Mary, do you remember Duncan MacLeod?” 

The girl had turned her attention to Duncan and held out her hand –so delicate, so small against his own as he took it.  
“Hello, Mr. MacLeod,” she had said, her gray eyes resting calmly on his face. Something about that gaze, about those eyes was familiar… but he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. 

A soft touch on his arm had ripped Duncan’s gaze away from the girl’s eyes and turned his attention back to Anne. Her touch had felt exactly as he remembered, gentle and light, an invitation to talk.  
“Duncan, I called a few times over the last weeks, but…” 

“I was in Europe.” He had said. 

“I see,” Anne’s eyes had fallen away from Duncan and followed Mary, already back at the swings. 

He had been stunned to see her eyes glisten wetly, when Anne had looked back at him. “Duncan, it’s about Joe. He’s…” 

“I’m sorry,” he had stammered, getting up. “Gotta go.” 

She had stood, too. “Joe’s dying.” 

_Why does everybody know so much about Joe? Why do they still care about him?_

Anne had been tugging lightly at his T shirt. “Please, Duncan.” 

“You know, I’m quite busy after being away for so long…” He had said lamely. 

“Duncan,” she had said hoarsely and to his irritation, a single tear slid from her right eye, “he doesn’t have long and although he won’t talk to me or Amanda,” he hadn’t known that she even knew Amanda, “about what happened between him and you, I think he would die easier if you talked to him. Please, Duncan.” 

“Goodbye, Anne.” He had embraced her stiffly and walked back to the dojo. 

For the first time in more than a year, Joe’s hand came to rest on Duncan’s. Cool, dry and almost weightless it felt like a small, trembling bird. The expected rasp of callused fingertips against his skin didn’t come. The fingertips were soft.  
“No, Mac.” 

MacLeod’s eyes wandered from the pattern of veins on Joe’s hand on his up to the gray eyes. 

“I know damn near everything about you Duncan MacLeod,” Joe said gently. “I know who you fought. I know who you killed. I know who you loved.” Joe closed his eyes for a moment, as if to collect his strength. “I died the day he died.” He said. “This is just a decaying body, an empty shell.” His eyes turned from misty to crystal clear and bore into the Highlander’s. 

“I can get Anne to look at you. I know she’s in town. I met her just yesterday.” 

Joe shook his head minutely. 

“Joe, there must be something…” 

“It's cancer, Mac. Liver, lung, who knows where else.” Another dry cough interrupted him. “Nothing left to do but wait. Sorry, Mac.” 

MacLeod mulled the information over for a few silent moments. Then he said: “You know it for quite a while, don’t you?” 

A faint, apologetic smile crossed Dawson’s face and for the first time since MacLeod had come in, he looked like the man he had known again.  
“Got me, Mac. It started about six weeks before…” Joe’s eyes got sad again, as if no time had passed since Methos had been killed, as if the grieve was fresh. “He told me to see a doctor, I insisted it was just my liver playing up after all those years of stress and late night drinks with the two of you…” Joe chuckled lowly, then convulsed when another coughing fit claimed him. “Methos wouldn’t hear of it. He’d sent me to see a doctor. I guess he was a better doctor than I’ve ever known. I got the results the week before he was killed.” 

“Did he know?” 

Joe shook his head sadly. “Never seemed the right time…” 

_‘in bed.’_ MacLeod’s mind completed the thought.  
It felt odd to think of the two men as lovers. _An aging mortal and the oldest Immortal… no bigger difference in the world one might think._

“It wasn’t like that…” Joe’s voice pulled him out of his reverie. 

“Huh?” 

“There wasn’t a vow or something. We were kinda…” he coughed. “Fighting best friends. His words.” Joe added softly. “But when he came back after Richie… I mean, after those god awful 17 months… he’d come to stay.” 

They fell silent, each lost in memories of Methos. 

“I miss the old man,” MacLeod mumbled. 

“Whom do you tell…?”  
Joe gave the Highlander’s hand a soft squeeze. “Stand by me, Mac. Stay with me until it’s over. I promise it… I …won’t take long.” 

“No, Joe, you mustn’t give up… let Anne…” 

“Ain’t nothing left for Anne to do.” Joe looked at MacLeod with a small smile on his lips. “I’m already past my best before date…” 

“Stop talking like this, Joe.” Duncan said, suddenly tired. He would lose another part of his life real soon. Amanda and Anne had been right; Joe was dying. And he was right too, it probably wouldn’t be long before he would be gone. 

“Would you do me a favour?” Joe asked, his grip on Duncan’s hand tightening. 

“You name it.” 

“I feel tired. All that talking… Would you,” Joe’s eyes bore into Duncan’s, “would you tell me what you remember about him?” 

Duncan swallowed thickly. _Shit, that would hurt._  
“Aye, Joe,” he managed. 

The nurse returned with a fresh set of bedclothes and a diaper.  
“You can wait outside,” she said to Duncan. “Nothing to see in here.” 

Duncan made eyes contact with Joe, who nodded weakly. 

But at the door, he decided differently.  
“No,” he said, his tone brooking no argument, “Stop. I’ll do it.” 

“Mac,” Joe aid weakly, “don’t. She can…” 

The nurse grabbed Joe’s arm and turned him onto his side roughly as if she hadn’t heard Duncan’s words. “Hold onto the rail,” she commanded. Dabbing with a wet towel at Joe’s backside, she ripped the sheet away from the mattress with the other hand. 

“I said stop!” Duncan repeated, louder this time. He grabbed her arm, dragging her away from Joe. 

He had changed bedclothes before, he could do it now. Stripping Joe’s T shirt off, he said to the nurse, who was watching him from the door, “Get a fresh pyjama.”  
To his surprise she did. 

When Joe was finally clad in a fresh pjs, diaper discarded into the waste without so much as a second thought, Duncan sat next to Joe’s frail body on the mattress and took the cool, slightly trembling hand in his again. Joe’s eyes were closed and his breathing seemed less laboured than before. 

Duncan regarded him silently for a few moments, then started to talk.  
“The first time I met him, he was sitting cross-legged in front of his journal, earphones in place, body surrounded by beer cans…” Despite the suddenly sharp pain of loss, Duncan felt himself smiling at the memory. There were lots of good memories of Methos and come to think of it, of Joe, too. 

Duncan talked on, watching faint emotions whisk over Joe’s face; joy, memory, and love. 

He talked until the hand he held went lax and cold. And then some. 


End file.
